


One's real life is so often the life that one does not lead

by ARedHairing



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Het, Masturbation, Mention of pregnancy, Multi, Threesomes, Toys, smut smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARedHairing/pseuds/ARedHairing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow if we follow the myth, we are dreamlike, fluid, not clearly formed, more immersed in a stream of fantasy than secure in a firm identity. - Thomas Moore</p>
            </blockquote>





	One's real life is so often the life that one does not lead

**Author's Note:**

> No fandom knowledge required; here there be smut. I have no idea what prompted this; one minute, I was re-reading Anansi Boys, and the next, this idea was popping into my head. Somehow, though, I don't think Neil would care for the blame. Henry Miller, on the other hand, would perhaps enjoy the blatant usage of his work for a title. Again.

Sometimes she would pretend it’s Hotch – big hands, coarse, rugged, and he’s stoic, almost, when they fuck. She knows he’s experienced—she doesn’t have to do much of anything, usually—and he always makes sure she comes, usually more than once. Sometimes he eats her out first; she draws it out, her fingers pinching her nipples, the undersides of her breasts, picturing his tongue lapping against her clit, and she’ll push harder, pulling up on her clit with her nails, imagining his teeth. She comes eventually, and that’s when he’ll slide into her, lift her hips up, and fuck her until she cries, unable to continue and unable to tell him no.

He always fucks her in the missionary position; she always makes sure to slide a pillow under hips first, wanting the same angle as she thrusts the vibrator in roughly, coming again when he slips a finger into her ass.

Sometimes, she likes to picture him going home to Haley afterwards; he doesn’t shower before fucking his wife roughly, with harsh words and painful thrusts, and only then will Emily cry out, back arched.

Other times she pretends it’s JJ, and she knows it’s wrong, more so than the rest of them, but she sees her so clearly: rounded stomach and heavy breasts, and Emily sees herself, sucking hard on JJ’s sensitive nipples, enjoying how she cries out, not for Will, but for Emily. Holding one, then the other, in her hands, and they’re heavy with milk, nourishment for the baby she will be having soon, but now, it’s Emily that tastes it, surprised at the sweetness. 

She pictures running her hand down over JJ’s swollen stomach, watching it disappear, feeling the wetness of JJ’s cunt as she pushes one, then two, fingers in, thumb brushing against her clit. She kneels down and licks a path from her throat to her cunt, hands holding JJ’s stomach as she trails down with her mouth, flicking her tongue over and over against JJ’s clit, feeling the already tight muscles harden as she comes. 

Sometimes, rarely, she pictures Will with them, and he fucks JJ from behind; she’s heavy with child now, pushing eight months, and JJ’s on her knees, face in Emily’s pussy. She cries raggedly, chokes—puffs of air that Emily can feel—and she tangles her hand in JJ’s hair, not letting her stop. Will flips her over, comes on her stomach, and Emily eagerly follows with her tongue, fingers deep in her cunt as she orgasms.

She’ll picture Reid, and he’s as awkward as ever, unsure; no amount of reading can prepare him for the reality of fucking. She takes his hand, places it on her breast, and lays down, urging him to follow. The tentative touches are light, unsure, teasing. She’s wet, desperate, and he is insecure, coming the second he enters her. She doesn’t mind; she blows him to hardness again, one finger in his ass as she works her mouth up and down his cock, and soon enough he’s ready again, and she teaches him to prep her. Other times, she teaches him how to fuck someone anally, because she knows that’s what he wants anyway, and she’s more than willing to play the teacher. Sometimes she’s fucking him, a strap-on button around her waist as she thrusts into him, knowing, even in her own mind, it’s not her he’s thinking of, but she gets off on the idea that she’s the one with her cock inside of him, not Hotch.

She once fantasized about Hotch and Reid together, about both of them touching her, touching each other, while she worked two dildos in and out of herself, and she came, hard, back arched on a silent scream, but it left her unsatisfied—more than normally—and she remembers later, leaning against the shower wall, and how she told herself she’d never, not again. She reminds herself of this promise every time after, but she’d forget—wanting, loving the idea of being fucked by them both at once—that they didn’t want her. 

Other times it’s Morgan and Garcia, always together, never apart. She licks down Morgan’s cock, tongue flicking against the salty skin and catching Garcia’s lip as they work together. She pictures her face, tongue deep in Garcia’s cunt, Garcia straddling from above as Morgan works three fingers into her, and she struggles to breathe, pushing down on Morgan while spreading open Garcia. 

She’s not sure what she wants more: Garcia’s fingers, four, five, even a fist inside her, or if she wants to be the one to fuck Garcia. It’s not a punishment, despite the fact that she gets to have Morgan and Emily doesn’t. It’s control, perhaps, but always sex, always. The wetness, the tightness, how Garcia feels around her wrist and the sounds she makes. Emily works four fingers into herself, eyes closed as she imagines she’s Penelope, and feels the muscles clinch around her fingers as she comes. 

Rossi… she isn’t sure, at first. It’s not something she actively set out to think about, but once it happens, she thinks about it again, and realizes that she likes to be dominated, not always, but by _him_. He’s demanding, rough, cares about himself, and she lets him take control, lets herself imagine how it would feel to give herself over, to be used. She found nipple clamps recently at her favorite store and she uses those on nights like this; before, although she won’t admit it, she used clothespins, and she finds she prefers those; they make her feel lower class. She fucks herself, eyes closed, imagining she’s unable to move, his hands around her neck, and only when she feels raw does she let herself come. 

Once, maybe twice, when she’s had a particularly rough day, when something has gone wrong, as it does, and she’s angry, and nothing else will get her off, she pictures Gideon, and only then does she realize that she too has a dominant side, a side that doesn’t need to be catered to, or hurt, to get off. Sometimes she’s not alone, sometimes Reid is there, or Hotch, or even Morgan. Gideon cowers, broken, as she flogs him, her pussy dripping wet at the thought. She sits on his face, smothering him, as his tongue licks blindly at her cunt, flog in her hand as she randomly flicks it down, covering his belly and cock in red welts that cause her to moan. The closer she gets the more she fantasizes about the pain, about the blood; its normal connotation is lost in the haze of lust.

She fucks herself sitting up, picturing herself riding him, and there’s a cock in his mouth; he hates it, hates sucking it, hates the taste, and she loves his despair. She’ll come hard on these nights and not think about why, after, just remember that Hotch has a thing for guns, and that Gideon hurt Hotch as much as he hurt Reid, when he left. 

And when Emily’s done, spent, her legs still wide apart and shaking, she slowly comes back to reality, or what she has left of it. She’s laying in her bed, quiet music playing in the background as the twilight of DC’s skyline filters in through half-closed curtains. She’ll lay there until she’s cold, until the phone rings, and it’s time to leave again.


End file.
